Some Girls Bite (5 page)

And Mallory, being a student of the occult, would know. If she hadn’t been so well-matched to her job at a Chicago ad agency, she would have dedicated her life to vampires and the like—and that was even before she knew they were real. As it was, she put in the time during her off-hours. And now she had me, her own little in-house vampire pet. Vampet?

“It felt like sleep,” I confirmed, and stood, laying the book on the floor between us and realizing what I was still wearing. “I’ve been in this dress for twenty-four hours. I need an excruciatingly long shower and a change of clothes.”

“Knock yourself out. And don’t use all my conditioner, dead girl.”

I snorted and walked to the stairs. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because someday you want to be as kick-ass cool as me.”

“Please. You’re a total fang hag.”

Laughter issued from the living room. “We’re going to have some serious fun with this.”

I doubted that, too, but I’d wallowed enough, so I swallowed my doubts and padded upstairs.

 

I avoided looking at the bathroom mirror just in case, fearful that I’d find no reflection there, but stood beneath the showerhead until the hot water ran out, cherishing the prickles of heat, and thinking about my new . . . existence? Helen had mentioned the basics—stakes, sunlight, blood—but she’d avoided the metaphysics. Who was I?
What
was I? Soulless? Dead? Undead?

Forcing myself to face at least part of the issue, I brushed a hand over the fogged mirror, praying for a reflection. The steam swirled in the small bathroom, but revealed me, damp and mostly covered by a pink bath sheet, the relief in my expression obvious.

I frowned at the mirror, tried to puzzle out the rest of it. I’d never been explicitly religious. Church, to my parents, was an excuse to show off Prada loafers and their newest Mercedes convertible. But I’d always been quietly spiritual. I tried, my parents notwithstanding, to be grateful for the things I’d been given, to be thankful for the things that reminded me that I was a small cog in a very big wheel: the lake on a moodily cloudy day; the gracious divinity of Elgar’s “The Lark Ascending”; the quiet dignity of a Cassat painting at the Art Institute.

So as I shivered, naked and damp, in front of the bathroom mirror, I raised my eyes skyward. “I hope we’re still okay.”

I got no answer, but then, I didn’t really expect one. Answer or not, it didn’t matter. That’s the thing about faith, I guess.

 

Twenty minutes later, I emerged downstairs, clean and dry, and back in jeans. I’d settled for a favorite low-waisted pair and teamed it with two thin, layered T-shirts in white and a pale blue that matched my eyes, and a pair of black Mihara Pumas. At three inches short of six feet, I had no need for heels. The only accoutrement missing from the ensemble was the black elastic I kept on my right wrist for hair emergencies. Today, I’d already pulled my dark hair up into a high ponytail, leaving the fringe of straight-cut bangs across my forehead.

I found Mallory downstairs in the kitchen. She sat on a stool at the kitchen island, a Diet Coke on the counter before her, a copy of
Cosmo
in her hands.

“What’d you learn last night in your vampire bible?” she asked, without looking up.

Preparing myself for the retelling, I nabbed a soda from the refrigerator, popped the tab, and slid onto a stool next to her. “Like Helen said, there’re twelve vampire Houses in the United States; three in Chicago. The House arrangement is kind of . . . Well, think feudal England. Except instead of a baron, you’ve got a Master vampire in charge of everything.”

“Ethan,” she offered.

I nodded my agreement. “For Cadogan, Ethan. He’s the most powerful vamp in the House. The rest of the vampires are basically his minions—we have to take an oath to serve him, swear our allegiance, that kind of thing. He even gets a fancy title.”

She looked up, brows lifted.

“He’s my ‘Liege.’ ”

Mallory tried unsuccessfully to hide a snicker—which ended up sounding strangled and anemic—before turning back to her magazine. “You have to call Darth Sullivan your ‘Liege’?”

I grinned. “Only if I expect him to answer.”

She snorted. “What else?”

“The Houses are like”—I paused to think of a good analogy—“company towns. Some vamps work for the House. Maybe guards or public relations folks or whatever. They’ve got administrators, docs who work outside the House, even some historic positions. All of them get a stipend.”

“Historic positions?”

I took a sip of my soda. “Ethan has a ‘Second,’ like a second-in-command or something.”

“Ooh, like Riker?”

Did I mentioned she also loved
Star Trek: The Next Generation
? “Sure. There’s also a ‘Sentinel,’ which is like a guard for the House.”

“For the brand?”

I nodded at the apt metaphor. “Exactly. And the House itself is in Hyde Park. Think mansion.”

Mallory looked appropriately impressed. “Well. If you’re going to be attacked and unwillingly made a vampire, let it be a rich and fancy vampire, I guess.”

“That’s an argument.”

“How many Cadogan vamps?”

“Three hundred and eight nationally. Eighty-six actually live in the House proper. They get dorm rooms or something.”

“So these vamps live in a mansion-slash-frat house, and you get a stipend just for having pointier teeth.” She cocked her head at me. “How much cash is it, exactly?”

“Decent. Better than TA-ing.”

“Minus the free will.”

“There is that.”

Mal cleared her throat, put the can on the counter, linked her hands together, then looked over at me. I guessed I wasn’t going to like whatever confession she was about to make.

“I called the university.”

The tone of her voice made my heart sink. “Did you tell them none of this was my choice?”

Her gaze dropped to the counter. “Merit, they don’t admit vampires. They don’t have to do it legally, and they’re afraid of the lawsuits if one of you was to, you know”—she frowned, waved a hand in the air—“with the teeth and the biting. Honestly, if Helen hadn’t done it, the university would have dropped you when they found out.”

That seed of hatred unfolded, sprouted. “But I wouldn’t have told them,” I persisted. “How else would they have known? I could have rearranged my schedule, taken night classes. . . .”

Mallory shook her head, handed me, with somber expression, a folded newspaper that lay on the tabletop. It was the morning’s
Trib
, open to a page that bore the word “CONGRATULATIONS!” in bold Gothic letters across the top.

I popped the paper open. The banner topped off a full-page ad in the lifestyles section. A list of names, twelve columns of them, a dozen names in each column. The text read:
The North American Vampire Registry congratulates the following new Initiates. May your service be fruitful and fulfilling.

I scanned the Houses: Navarre, McDonald, Cabot, Cadogan, Taylor, Lincoln, Washington, Heart, Lassiter, Grey, Murphy, Sheridan. My name was listed in the Cadogan column.

My stomach clenched.

“Some reporters called,” Mallory quietly said. “They left messages on the machine. They want to talk to you about being a vampire. A Merit vampire.”

“Reporters?” I shook my head and chucked the paper back onto the table. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe they’d do this. That they’d
out
me.” I scrubbed hands across my face, tried to contain the anger that was beginning to well.

“Are you okay?” Mallory asked.

I dropped my hands and looked at her, willing her to understand. “I could have pretended, made sure no one knew. All I had to do was take evening classes, which wouldn’t have been so hard. My committee would have worked with me. Goddamn it! I didn’t even get a chance to try!”

The fury rose, quick, hot, and strong. It itched beneath my skin like my body was one size too small to contain it. Like my body didn’t fit. I rolled my shoulders in irritation, the anger still swelling.

I wanted to hit something. Fight something.
Bite
something. I slowly turned my head, cast a covetous glance at the refrigerator.

“Jesus H., Merit.”

I flicked a glance her way. Mallory’s eyes were wide, her hands clenched at the edge of the countertop. I heard the quick, flat double-thudding of a drum, and realized it was the thump of her heartbeat.

“What?” I whispered.

She reached out a hand, but snatched it back. “Your eyes. Your irises are completely silver.”

I ran from the kitchen to the first-floor bathroom, flipped on the light, and stared at myself. She was right. The blue of my eyes had become gleaming silver, the pupils dilated to pinpricks.

Mallory squeezed into the tiny powder room behind me. “You got angry. It must happen when you get angry.”

Angry or thirsty, I silently amended, since I’d just considered drinking blood as a means of stress relief.

“Open your mouth.”

My eyes still silver, our gazes met in the mirror. I hesitated for a moment, having to work up the courage for it, knowing what I’d see when I did.

I opened my mouth, saw the fangs that had descended from my upper jaw. My eyeteeth had lengthened, the tips becoming longer, sharper. That must have happened when I’d considered raiding the refrigerator. I’m not sure what it said about who I was now that I hadn’t noticed at the time.

I murmured a worried curse.

“Those weren’t there before.”

“I know,” I bit out.

“I’m sorry, but that’s wicked fucking cool.”

I snapped my mouth shut, and pointed out through a clenched jaw, “Not so cool the first time I get the urge to make you an afternoon snack.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

Her tone was easy, wholly confident, but I had no such faith. “I hope not.”

She picked up a lock of my straight, long hair. “Your hair is darker.” She cocked her head at me. “Maybe ‘sable,’ instead of ‘chestnut.’ And your skin is paler. You have this kind of . . . undead glow.”

I stared at my reflection. She was right—darker hair, paler skin, like the stereotypical vamp.

“What else do you feel? Stronger? Better hearing? Eyesight? Any of that?”

I blinked at my reflection. “I see the same stuff, and my hearing level is the same.” I thought of the smells of the house, the richness there. “Maybe a little better sense of smell? And I’m not bombarded or anything, but when I got excited, I could kind of sense new things.” I didn’t mention the prickle in the air I’d felt around her, or the fact that the new things I could sense included the resounding thud of her heartbeat.

Mallory leaned against the doorframe. “Since my hands-on experience with the walking dead is, like, eighteen hours old, this is just a guess, but I bet there’s an easy way to take care of this silver-eyes problem.”

This should be good. “And that would be?”

“Blood.”

 

We put it on the island, along with a martini glass, an iced tea glass, a food thermometer, a bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, and a jar of olives, both of us unsure how best to attack. Mallory jabbed the bag with the blunt end of a bamboo skewer. It gurgled, and the depression in one side of the medical-grade plastic slowly filled back in. She made a sound of disgust and looked at me with sympathetic eyes. “Jesus, Merit.”

I nodded and looked down at the bag of type O. It was one of the seven that had been delivered. There was one of each type—A, B, AB and O—and three extra bags of O. It was supposed to have universal appeal, I guessed.

“Liquid, liquid everywhere and not a drop to drink,” I observed.

“Ugh. English lit geek much?”

“Corporate oppressor.”

“Nerd.”

“Blue-haired weirdo.”

“Guilty as charged.” She picked up the iced tea glass and handed it to me. “Now or never, Merit. She said you needed a pint every other day.”

“I’m kind of assuming that’s an average. You know—four pints a week, give or take, averaging to one every other day. And I probably had one before they dropped me off yesterday. So I don’t really need to open it until tomorrow.”

Mallory frowned at me. “You don’t want to even try it? It’s blood, and you’re a vampire. You should be ripping at the plastic with those sharp-ass teeth just to get to the stuff.” She held up the bag between two fingers, waggled it in the air. “Blood. Yummy, delicious blood.” The crimson liquid shuffled back and forth in the bag as she waggled it, making little waves in a tiny, self-contained ocean. And it was making me seasick.

I put a defensive hand over my abdomen. “Just put the bag down, Mallory.”

She did, and we stared at it for another few minutes until I looked up at her. “I think I’m just not hungry for it. Surely it would be more appealing if I really, really wanted it.”

“Are you hungry for anything?”

I scanned the library of cereal boxes on top of the refrigerator, the stash owing in part to Mallory’s preparations for the rumored vampire apocalypse. “Hand me the box of Chunkee Choco Bits. The marshmallow kind.”

“Done and done,” she said, and slid off her stool. She went to the refrigerator, reached up, grabbed the box, and walked back to hand it over. I opened and reached into it, grabbing a handful of cereal, then picking through it to get to the marshmallows, which I popped into my mouth. “None for you?”

“Mark’s coming over,” she carefully said, “if that’s okay with you.”

Mark was Mallory’s sweet but aimless boyfriend. I gave them two more weeks. “Fine with me. Make him bring Chinese. But if he annoys me, I’ll probably have to bite him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Vampire bitch.”

I shrugged and picked through another handful of cereal. “I’m just warning you, I’m probably going to be a total hard-ass vamp.”

Mallory snorted and walked out of the kitchen, calling out, “Yeah, well, you’ve got a purple marshmallow on your chin, hard-ass vamp.”